


Flower Girl

by GlorifiedFanfiction



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 02:36:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8950576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlorifiedFanfiction/pseuds/GlorifiedFanfiction
Summary: Writing Practice that I thought I'd post





	

She picks up her coat, shrugging it over her shoulders.

The same shoulders that I had been resting my head on just a few hours earlier, as morning rays lit up the halo of curly blonde hair spread out over her pillow.

“I’ll see you after work.” She says. It sounds more like a question, and I feel the need to reassure her that I’m not going to disappear.

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

 

I’d met her at work. Her work. She’s a florist. I was grabbing a bouquet of flowers for a wedding I was attending, and she had suggested lavender Lilies.  They turned out to be perfect for a spring wedding. The bride commented on my excellent taste.

Lilies aren’t her favourite- of course they aren’t- she likes daffodils. I think they suit her. She’s like a summer wedding. I can sometimes hear the wedding bells when she laughs.

When I first gathered up enough courage to ask her out, she said no. The second time, her voice wavered before she’d said she was busy for the week. The third time, she swept some of her golden locks behind her ear and muttered that she was a little bit peckish after her 6-hour shift. I took her to the same café that I’d spent hours on end just…watching her.

Back then I didn’t hear her wedding bells very often. She was reserved and nervous. Nothing like the bashful, warm summers day that I’d envisioned her to be like. Whenever she was around the flowers she was like a whirlwind. A ridiculously graceful whirlwind, who’s eyes would light up when a customer would ask about the meaning of each flower. I could see her explaining animatedly through the window of the flower store- her arms flailing, and cheeks blossoming into a wonderful shade of red. I wondered what had happened to make her look so sad.

You don’t need to spend much time with her to realise that half her communication is through her arms- she can’t stand being still for long. I remember her sitting across from me, in that cramped café, hands laced together on her lap. The steaming cup of tea was fogging up her glasses, and I had the craziest urge to wipe the condensation off on my sweater. So, I did. I settled them back on the bridge of her nose, where they belonged, and she’d looked at me through the frames as if she’d just seen me for the first time.


End file.
